UC-NRLF 


953 

N553      ' '  "°  °" 
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SONGS  OF 
JEWISH  REBIRTH 


LOUIS  I.  NEWMAN 


t^'-'<r~\/\A^ 


SONGS  OF 
JEWISH  REBIRTH 


by 

LOUIS  I.  NEWMAN 


NEW   YORK 

BLOCH  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

1921 


S 


^t 


Copyright,  1921 

by 

LOUIS  I.  NEWMAN 


454633 


NOTE 

I  publish  these  poems  in  response  to  the 
request  of  several  friends,  and  for  circu- 
lation among  them.  They  represent  the 
thought  of  a  few  precious  leisure  moments 
over  a  period  of  two  years.  The  poems 
have  appeared  at  various  times  in  the 
Jewish  daily  and  periodical  press  includ- 
ing the  American  Hebreiv,  the  Jervish 
Dail^  News,  the  Jewish  Forum,  the  Jew- 
ish Exponent,  the  Young  Judean  and  the 
American  Israelite.  I  am  further 
prompted  to  collate  these  verses  by  reason 
of  the  recent  dearth  of  poems  relating  to 
the  life  of  the  American  Jew. 

L.  I.  N. 

New  York,  September,  1921 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

On  Seeing  Sargent's  "Synagogue  and 

Church" 11 

Simpson  Street,  The  Bronx 13 

The  Chosen 16 

The  Face  of  Herzl 17 

— "In  Hebrew"       18 

The  Wailing  Wall  Crumbles 19 

Changeling        21 

Hail  O  My  Young  Pioneers 22 

Kurt  Eisner 23 

A  Convention  Fantasy 24 

Israel  Beneath  the  Arch 27 

The  Friar,  the  Maid,  and  the  Jew   ....  30 

Leviathan  At  the  Circus 35 

The  City 36 


SONGS  OF  JEWISH  REBIRTH 


SONGS  OF  JEWISH  REBIRTH 

ON  SEEING  SARGENT'S  "SYNAGOGUE"  AND 

"CHURCH" 

What  mean  you,  master  of  the  brush  and  tube? 

Where  has  your  genius  fled?     You  from  whose  brain 

The  rapt  seraphic  seers  of  Israel 

Leaped  on  the  canvas,  full-grovvn  into  life. 

Why  paint  you  now  a  maid  upon  her  throne. 

Inscribed — oh,  mockery — with  prophets'  names. 

Who  holds  the  goblet  and  the  wafer  poised 

On  robes  that  lightly  touch  the  thorn-crowned  Christ? 

Why  are  her  eyes  so  luminous  and  clear 

Like  Catherine  aflame  with  mystic  sight? 

And  why  upon  another  sheet  you  paint 

A  fearsome  thing?     What  mystery  broods  here? 

What  riddle  in  this  beardless  figure  lurks? 

Is  this  a  royal  sire  with  hoary  locks 

That  fall  distrait  across  a  feeble  breast? 

Or  is  this  Israel's  daughter,  Bath-Zion, 

Of  whom  sage  Jeremiah  sang  his  plaint: 

*'She  that  was  great  among  the  nations  once 

Is  now  become  a  beldame,  aged,  lone. 

Why  should  the  gilded  crown  be  tottering? 
Why  should  her  sinewed  fingers  madly  clutch 
The  shattered  halves  of  Shiloh's  sceptre-staff; 
And  why  the  tablets  of  the  law  or  yet 
A  golden  breastplate  should  she  hug  and  clasp 
To  hide  her  nakedness? 


[II] 


Why  should  she,  fallen  on  the  bloody  stone, 
Like  Hecuba  or  Priam  slain  at  Troy, 
Drag  tight,  idolatrous,  emblazoned  folds. 
Whereon  the  cherubs,  like  Medusa-heads, 
With  vacant  or  malignant  stares,  behold  her  grief? 
And  why,  we  ask  you,  why  those  sightless  eyes, 
As  if  in  contrast  to  the  brilliant  orbs 
Of  your  bright  virgin  clothed  in  churchly  guise? 
Would  you  proclaim  that  in  the  flame  and  heat 
Of  Jahweh's  wrath  her  sockets  have  burned  void? 
And  why  bind  round  her  head  the  sable  band. 
As  if  to  say,  though  sight  were  vouchsafed  her. 
Yet  self-imposed,  black  ignorance  lay  there? 

Oh,  master-painter,  is  your  symbol  true 

Of  that  great  hearth  where  gentle  Hillel  taught 

Your  Christ  his  mild  and  soothing  words  of  truth? 

Where  Jochanan,  Maimonides,  Rashi 

And  Rabbi  Ezra,  mentioned  by  your  poet, 

The  God-intoxicated  Benedict, 

The  hunchback  Socrates  in  latter  days. 

Revealed  their  mighty  thoughts  that  shook  mankind. 

Think  you  our  youth  will  mutely  close  their  lips 
When  you  weave  painted  errors  in  your  text? 
We  are  an  ancient  folk,  sore-weighed  with  years ; 
Yet  are  we  ever  young;  undying  fire 
Runs  through  our  veins.     Our  bearded  patriarchs 
Still  dream  the  dreams  of  God.      Our  warrior  youth 
See  visions  and  the  Law  from  us  still  flows. 

What  mean  you,  master  of  the  brush  and  tube; 
Where  has  your  genius  fled? 

[12] 


SIMPSON  STREET.  THE  BRONX 

My  people  have  pushed  their  restless  course, 

In  quest  of  things  better  and  finer. 

Past  the  tents  of  the  desert. 

The  mire  and  panic  of  the  Pale, 

The  teeming  tenements  and  dens; 

They  have  reached  the  broad  streets  of  the  Bronx, 

And  claim  its  expanse  as  a  homeland. 

The  highways  are  close-packed  as  of  old: 
Pushcarts,  fruit  w^agons,  automobiles, 
Baby  carriages,  numberless  as  the  sea-sands. 
Modern  apartments  display  from  their  windows 
Bedding  and  clotheslines  and  national  flags; 

Halls  and  rooms  squirm  with  their  hordes. 
Neighbors  unknown  to  each  other. 
Nestling  against  iron  gratings, 
'Neath  which  the  Gentile  janitors  sojourn, 
Cans  of  rotting  garbage,  or  cinders  and  ash 
Empty  their  dust  at  morn  or  midday 
And  whiten  the  pavement  and  its  populace. 

As  of  old  are  the  dwellers  of  these  streets: 

Children  play  at  chalk-marks. 

With  grimy  fingers  push  their  checkers. 

Or  smack  the  flying  handball. 

Baby  boys  and  girls  toddle  between  the  feet 

Of  the  smiling  or  ill-humored  stranger. 

Here  sit  the  painted  Jezebels, 

Preening  their  wings  in  the  sun; 

Matrons  abloom,  nursing  their  young  at  the  breast, 

[13] 


Chattering  their  gossip 
Of  grocers  and  movies  and  landlords. 
Clad  in  their  furs  and  their  gems, 
Half-Oriental,  half-Occidental, 
A  race  in  transition. 

At  night  the  pairs  promenade  as  of  old. 
Under  Egypt's  or  Babylon's  or  Spain's  skies, 
Or  late  on  the  now-scorned  East  Side. 
'Mid  the  roar  of  the  heedless  trains. 
They  make  their  vows  in  the  hallways. 
On  the  steps,  by  the  glare  of  the  shoplights. 
Young  Jews  dressed  to  fashion's  book: 
Bright  cravats,  new-sewn  spats; 
Peacocks  and  paradise  birds, 
Cockatrells  and  parrots. 

This,  alas,  is  my  people,  once  again  on  the  march. 

Would  they  exchange  their  jarring  syncopated  tunes 

For  the  songs  of  Zion  or  the  pew? 

Would  they  renounce  their  well-fed  ease. 

To  dig  as  hungry  pioneers,  with  naked  fingers? 

Where  are  our  seers,  our  warrior  youth 

Among  these  ignoble  offspring. 

These  powdered  and  kalsomined  daughters. 

Of  stern  and  faith-bound  sires? 

And  yet  something  hot  and  strong  vibrates 

In  the  mass  of  these  curious  beings: 

Their  chewing  jaws  move  in  perpetual  rhythm; 

They  hunger  for  the  fleshpots  (and  the  paint-pots)  ; 

Yet  a  more  than  mortal  spark  troubles  their  breasts. 

They  struggle  and  are  discontent, 

Their  complacency  is  stung  by  a  thousand  darts 

Of  pride,  hope  and  aspiration. 

[14] 


The  hours  pass,  the  years  pass: 

The  uncouth,  the  loutish,  the  boors, 

Become  earth's  gentle  noblemen. 

Chivalrous  and  gallant  and  high-bred. 

From  chaos  emerge  learning  and  light; 

My  brothers  move  eagerly  towards  the  heroic  and  true; 

Here  in  exile  they  learn  the  secret  of  the  larger  life; 

They  learn  the  tale  of  the  Community, 

They  learn  the  tale  of  the  Nation. 

The  dross  is  transmuted  soon  into  priceless  metal. 

Forth  from  here  went  the  sons  of  the  Seventy-Seventh; 
Forth  from  here  poets  and  mystics, 

Forth  from  here  men  and  women  consumed  with  a  passion 
For  martydom  in  the  name  of  justice  and  beauty. 

Scratch  your  vulgarians ; 
Behold  your  prophets! 


[15 


THE  CHOSEN 

I  saw  a  shaft  of  sunlight  pierce  a  mist. 

And  cleave  a  dusky  valley  near  and  far; 

It  carved  its  path,  a  flaming  scimitar. 

As  if  it  sought  a  hallowed  place  of  tryst. 

Then  on  a  bearded  peak  I  saw  it  list, 

And  build  a  halo  round  the  shaggy  crest; 

A  rainbow  marked  the  haven  of  its  quest, 

Arched  low  like  Nippon's  bridges,  moisture-kissed. 

So  have  I  seen  across  the  murky  page. 
The  sign  of  God's  old  covenant  foretell 
His  favorite  kin,  elect  of  every  age. 
Upon  our  shoulders,  prophet-mandes  fell, 
A  light  ineffable  enwraps  the  stage 
Whereon  we  tread,  God's  chosen,  Israel. 


[16] 


THE  FACE  OF  HERZL. 

(Suggested  by  a  rare  etching  by  Herman  Struck.) 

The  face  of  Herzl  hangs  upon  my  wall; 

Black-bearded  like  some  sable  Syrian  king. 

The  pen  of  grief  has  etched  her  sombre  pall 

O'er  those  pale  cheeks.      So  looked  he  when  he  died, 

Ere  yet  his  brooding  soul  had  taken  wing. 

Those  eyes  that  darted  lightning  'neath  his  brow 

Are  faded  in  their  dark-ringed  sockets  now. 

Like  embers,  lustreless,  their  flame  denied. 

A  man  of  sorrows!    Chained  'v\'ithin  those  eyes 

A  crowded  tale  of  hope  and  struggle  lies; 

The  wails  of  Kishineff  assail  his  rest; 

The  Judenschmerz,  the  world-pain,  sear  his  breast. 

Like  Moses  on  the  mount-of-vision's  height, 

Menasseh,  champion  of  his  people's  right. 

He  knows  that  triumph  dawns  for  him  too  late; 

His  heart  in  silence  breaks  beyond  the  gate. 

My  eyes  behold  his  face  last  ere  I  sleep; 
I  wake  at  morn  to  greet  his  gaze  and  weep; 
It  haunts  me  where  I  go.     Would  he  might  call: 
"On  you  an  edge  of  our  torn  mantle  fall!" 
Then  would  I  leap,  full-armed,  to  heed  his  plea: 
"Hineini!     Here  am  I!     Send  me!     Send  me!'* 


[17] 


"—IN  HEBREW" 

They  say,  little  son  of  mine, 
That  in  far-off  Palestine: 

The  tots  in  the  gardens  play 
In  Hebrew! 

The  birds  in  the  tree-tops  sing 
In  Hebrew! 

And  even  the  fuzzy  dogs  bark 
As  they  romp  away  for  a  lark 
— In  Hebrew! 


[18] 


THE  WAILING  WALL  CRUMBLES 

(On  the  day  the  British  under  General  Allenby  entered  Jeru- 
salem, a  rumor   came    to   America   that   the    Western   or 
Wailing  Wall  which  had  stood  since  the  fall  of  the 
Temple,  had  crumbled  to  the  ground.) 

Old  Wailing  Wall,  crumble,  your  labor  is  done; 
Your  hour  has  sounded ;  your  purpose  is  won ; 
Two  thousand  sad  years  you  have  been  the  retreat 
Of  pain-tortured  spirits,  and  world-weary  feet. 

For  in  the  dark  moment  when  impious  hand 
Defiled  the  loved  Temple,  and  hurled  the  red  band. 
You  only  remained,  for  the  birds  from  the  peaks 
Brought  dewdrops  of  rescue  and  hope  in  their  beaks. 

But  had  God  assembled  the  flood  of  our  tears, 
Poured  out  for  our  sorrows  in  exile,  our  fears; 
Not  you  alone,  plucked  from  the  burnmg,  would  stand, 
But  all  Judah  safe  in  his  dream-hallowed  land. 

II 

Yet  now  need  we  longer  raise  wails  for  our  dead ; 
With  sighs  rend  our  garment,  with  sobs  dash  our  head? 
No!     Cease,  oh  my  people,  your  anguish  and  moans. 
Lest  heedless,  we  darken  the  heavens  with  groans. 

The  Wailing  Wall  crumbles!     But  hark,  at  the  gate. 
With  no  martial  music,  no  lordly  estate. 
The  conqueror  enters,  with  high-lifted  head. 
On  foot,  and  with  humble  and  reverent  tread. 

While  in  the  cool  daybreak,  wild  oaths  crowd  the  air. 
The  baffled  usurper  seeks  madly  his  lair; 
God's  justice  has  fated  the  cannon's  hoarse  breath, 
To  shatter  his  boastings  by  terror  and  death. 

[19] 


Ill 

But  are  these  not  strangers  who  come  on  the  day 
When  Judah,  the  Hammerer,  gave  freedom  sway? 
Yes,  Gentiles  in  blood,  ruled  by  wide-varied  laws. 
But  brothers  and  comrades  in  one  common  cause. 

And  see,  in  their  ranks,  march  our  own  valiant  youth. 
A  smile  in  their  heart,  in  their  hand  swords  of  truth; 
And  over  them  broods  as  they  strike  and  pursue. 
The  spirit  of  Maccabee,  kindled  anew. 

The  Lions  of  Judah  and  Britain  have  sworn: 
In  justice  and  joy  shall  the  Jew  be  born; 
That  liberty  live  where  the  East  joins  the  West, 
And  through  Israel,  all  the  nations  be  blessed. 

IV 

The  Wailing  Wall  crumbles!      But  listen,  old  Wall, 
Each  grain  of  your  dust  as  your  rocks  crack  and  fall. 
Will  waft  its  bold  message  abroad  through  the  earth. 
And  lead  a  new  soul  to  the  soil  of  rebirth. 

Not  pious,  worn  greybeards  in  search  of  a  grave, 
But  radiant  young  heroes,  the  strong  and  the  brave; 
Not  sucked  dry  of  zeal,  and  of  vision  grown  cold. 
But  burning  to  build  and  to  plant  and  to  hold. 

So  crumble,  old  Wall,  if  your  labor  must  cease; 
Return  to  the  dust  whence  you  came,  in  full  peace. 
And  know  as  you  perish,  that  new  walls  will  rise. 
Live  on  in  your  sons,  for  the  Jew  never  dies! 

[20] 


CHANGELING 
A  TRIALOGUE 

{An  Anti-Zionist  Jewish  scholar  once   compared   the  Jewish 
people  to  a  dove  whch  flies  on  one  wing — interna- 
tionalism, and  rests  on  the  other — nationalism.) 

"A  Midrash  tells,"  proclaimed  the  Sage, 

"That  Israel  in  every  age 

Must  make  his  voyage  like  a  dove    • 

On  one  wing — universal  love. 

And  rest  on  one — the  love  of  kin." 

"But  Rabbi,"  bold  disciples  ask, 
"Needs  must  the  dove  refuse  its  task; 
Unless  its  weary  pinion  rest, 
Its  fresh  wing  hasten  to  the  test, 
'Twill  flutter  to  the  ground." 

Then  spoke  the  heretic  his  mood: 
"My  people  is  no  feeble  brood; 
To  undreamed  heights  we  now  aspire. 
On  giant  wings  that  never  tire. 
For  Israel  an  eagle  is!" 


[21] 


HAIL  O'  MY  YOUNG  PIONEERS! 

Ye  are  my  young  pioneers. 

Ye  are  my  vision-led  seers, 

Ye  are  the  hope  of  my  years, 

Ye  are  the  smile  in  my  tears. 

Eastward  a  dream  turns  your  brow. 
Eastward  your  ship  bends  its  prow. 
Eastward  your  multitudes   flow. 
Eastward  your  star  sheds  its  glow. 

Downward  the  swoop  of  your  axe. 
Downward  the  curve  of  your  backs, 
Downward  your  plough  carves  its  tracks. 
Downward  the  seed  and  the  flax. 

Up  with  the  ore  from  the  mine. 

Up  with  the  mud  from  the  brine. 

Up  with  the  dam's  solid  line. 

Up  with  the  nation's  bold   sign. 

Build  where  the  midland  sea  foams. 
Build  where  the  frontiersman    roams, 
Build  skyward  turrets  and  domes. 
Build  stately  cities  and  homes. 

Forward  ye  sluggards    who    plod. 

Forward  ye  sleepers  who  nod, 

Forward  on  Israel's  sod. 

Forward  for  land  and  for  God. 

Hail  and  farewell  to  all  fears. 

Hail  to  the  herald  who  nears. 

Hail  to  the  dawn  that  appears. 

Hail  O  my  young  pioneers! 

[22] 


KURT  EISNER 

(On  February  23,  1919,  Kurt  Eisner,  the  Jewish  Premier  of 

Munich,  was  assassinated  by  an  Imperial  reactionary 

for  his  address  in  Switzerland,  denouncing 

Germany's  war  lords.) 

Add  one  more  name  to  that  immortal  roll 
Of  martyrs  for  the  shackled  word  of  truth: 

Kurt  Eisner,  dauntless  freeman,  prophet-soul, 
Whose  memory  has  won  eternal  youth. 

From  dungeon-cell,  enchained  by  freedom's  foes. 

He  roused  his  people,  snapped  the  tyrant's  yoke. 
Amid  the  riot  and  the  storm  he  rose, 

A  giant  builder,  firmer  than  the  oak. 

Then  on  the  fatal  day  when  cowards  sought 
To  play  the  hypocrite;  with  whines  and  tears 

To  wash  away  the  wrongs  their  lust  had  wrought, 
And  ease  each  quaking  culprit  of  his  fears. 

He  dared,  though  death  he  knew  must  be  his  end, 

To  speak  the  truth  that  seared  like  scorching  flame, 

"On  you  the  guilt;  from  you  the  full  amend; 
On  you  the  penalty;  on  you  the  shame!" 

For  this,  a  precious  sacrifice  he  died; 

Yet  his  bold  word,  now  hallowed  by  his  blood 
Will  waken  millions,  long  of  light  denied. 

And  purge  their  hearts  as  by  a  mighty  flood. 

Oh  heavy-laden  race  from  which  he  came, 
Whose  martyrs  at  the  stake  and  barricade 

Outnumber  heaven's  stars,  your  son  now  claim. 
And  weep  when  with  his  fathers  he  is  laid! 

The  world  may  point  its  finger,  shower  scorn 
On  renegades  who  bring  their  kin  ill-fame; 

But  let  men  heed  the  hero  whom  they  mourn. 
And  judge  his  race  with  justice,  in  his  name. 

[23] 


A  CONVENTION  FANTASY 
By  One  Who  Stayed  Away. 

I  trace   a  myriad   David's  shields 

Among  the  starHt  skies; 

I  catch  the  sound  of  a  nation's  hymns 

Within  the  zephyr's  sighs. 

For  I  have  fled  to  the  hermit's  lodge, 

Far  from  the  city's  streets; 

And  I  have  chosen  sweet  soHtude 

Where  the  pulse  of  nature  beats. 

I  cannot  follow  my  mournful  thoughts 

As  they  leap  across  the  land. 

To  abide  where  Zion's  hosts  are  met, 

A  joyful  and  resolute  band. 

So  I  will  convene  a  congress  here. 

In  nature's  genial  haunts, 

And  conjure  up  scenes  of  playful  mood. 

To  appease  my  spirit's  wants. 

The  arching  skies  our  convention-hall. 

Its  roof  the  painted  clouds; 

The  shaggy  hills  shall  lend  their  trees. 

Tier  upon  tier  for  crowds. 

As  program-master,  I  call  the  roll: 

The  delegates  skip  and  run 

From  thicket  and  dell,  from  nook  and  glade. 

Seeking  a  place  in  the  sun. 

I  draft  the  house-dog,  enlist  the  cat, 
I  mobilize  bird  and  beast; 


[24] 


A  shrewd  politician  Reynard-Fox, 

A  squirrel  alert  for  the  feast. 

A  porcupine  has  lent  his  spare-quills; 

He  toils  as  journalist-scribe; 

On  pond-lily  leaves  the  minutes   he  writes. 

The  proudest  son  of  his  tribe. 

The  toads  sit  solemnly  on  their  stools, 
The  beetles  flit  here  and  there ; 
The  Jack-in-pulpits  as  Rabbis  serve, 
And  open  the  sessions  with  prayer. 
Then  nature's  harmonious  orchestra, 
Carols  the  folk-tunes  and  lays, 
Locusts  and  bees,  and  the  humming  birds, 
The  crickets  chant  paeans  of  praise. 

The   mischievous   grasshoppers   sport   with   glee; 

The  magpies  chatter  in  scorn, 

While  the  chief-orator,  a  hoarse-voiced  frog 

Sharpens  his  tones  on  a  thorn. 

The  branches  rustle  with  rounds  of  applause; 

The  flowers  nod  "ay"  and  "nay" ; 

The  thunder  and  lightning  in  chorus  join. 

When  discussion  prolongs  the  day. 

At  night  committees  in  conclave  meet 

Beneath  the  smiling  moon; 

And  all  the  forest's  creatures  attend, 

To  whisper  and  giggle  and  croon. 

The  fireflies  shed  their  tende  glow. 

While  the  sage  old  owls  debate, 

And  as  elder  statesmen  lay  down  the  chart. 

For  the  course  of  the  ship  of  state. 

[25] 


But  at  twilight  I  am  happiest; 

For  amid  the  cattle's  songs 

And  the  cowbell's  tinkle  I  seem  to  hear 

The  accents  of  mighty  throngs. 

And  when  at  even,  the  lark  is  gay. 

Mounting  higher  and  higher. 

The  hope  in  his  heart  is  a  people's  hope. 

Kindled  by  heavenly  fire. 

So  this  is  nature's  fond  mummery. 

To  soothe  my  disconsolate  heart; 

And  I  am  thankless  were  I  not  to  laud 

Each  tiny  actor  his  part. 

And  yet  forlorn  as  Halevi  I  roam, 

While  sadness  takes  bitter  toll; 

I  sojourn  alone  in  the  listening  East, 

But  the  West  has  snared  my  soul! 


[26] 


(. 


ISRAEL  BENEATH  THE  ARCH 

THE  CAPTIVE  SPEAKS 
In  the  year  70,  Jewish  captives  marched  beneath  the  Arch  of 
Titus  erected  at  Rome  to  commemorate  the  de- 
struction of  the  Jewish  State. 

Forsaken  are  we.  Lord  of  Hosts,  in  battle-din; 

O  God  of  Israel  declare  to  us  our  sin. 

To  grace  a  Roman  holiday,  in  bonds  we  march. 

The  proud  oppressor's  slaves  beneath  his  sculptured  arch. 

God's  glory  hovered  over  us,  kept  safe  our  land ; 
Until  this  tyrant  smote  our  homes  with  heavy  hand; 
His  legions  wielded  ruthlessly  the  sword  and  mace; 
And  none  there  was  to  save  us.     God  had  veiled  his  face. 

Our  fighting  men  waged  stubborn  war;  each  blow  in  vain; 
Our  babes  were  dashed  against  the  rocks;  our  loved  ones 

slain ; 
Our  Temple  lies  in  smouldering  heaps,  defiled  our  shrine; 
Above  our  soil  the  ploughman  carves  the  furrow's  line. 

Ye  conquerors!     Think  you  we  faint  and  feebly  die? 
We  challenge  torture;  wrack  and  stake  we  dare  defy! — 
But  at  our  weary  ankles  drags  the  clanking  chain ; 
And  at  our  hearts  we  know  the  wrench  of  boundless  pain. 

Our  gold  Menorah,  vessels  pure,  our  holy  ark, 

The  age-stained  scrolls  whereon  our  scribes  traced  God's 

own  mark. 
The  prophet-people  lift  to  meet  the  heathen's  gaze; 
We  taste  his  taunts  and  jibes;  our  lot  for  years  and  days. 

O  cursed  Arch!  Your  every  stone  for  us  spells  doom; 
A  monument  of  victory?  For  us  a  tomb. 
Beyond  this  Arch,  far-flung  extends  the  exile's  track; 
And  here  we  grasp  the  staff;  we  don  the  wanderer's  pack. 

[27] 


THE  FREEMAN  SPEAKS 

In  \9\9,Jewish  soldiers  of  the  77th  Division  marched  beneath 

the  Victory  Arch,  erected  in  New  York  to  commemorate 

the  downfall  of  the  Central  Pozvers. 

Time's  harvest  brings  a  strange  revenge!      Once  more  be- 
neath an  Arch, 

The  warrior  sons  of  Israel  returned  from  battle  march. 
(      Yet  not  as  sorrow-weighted  captives,  not  as  shackled  slaves. 

But  joy-blessed  heroes   for  whose  honor  triumph's  banner 
waves. 

Against  the  spawn  in  latter  days  of  cruel  imperial  Rome, 
We  joined  our  hands  with  comrades  true  for  justice  and 

for  home ; 
^    Our    Maccabean   mettle    proved,    our    courage    passed    by 

none. 
We  sealed  our  pact  of  love  amid  the  forests  of  Argonne. 

Proud  Germany  our  strokes  have  helped  to  humble  in  the 
dust; 
■J    And  by  our  deed  Rome's  fame  became  the  prey  of  moth 
/  and  rust. 

From  boastful   kings   and  emperors  we  hurled  the  sceptre 

down ; 
And  by  our  valor  Titus  fell,  and  Hadrian's  renown. 

Behold   on   Freedom's    festal    day,    we   greet   the   cheering 
i<--  throngs. 

And    by   its    plaudits    all    the    world    repairs    our    ancient 

wrongs ; 


[28] 


Acclaimed  the  great  Republic's  sons,  sprung  from  the  death- 
less race, 

Our  hearts  o'erflood  with  memories  the  years  shall  not  ef- 
face. 

Not  tyranny's,  but  liberty's  triumphal  arch  we  view; 

For   us   it  spells   not   hope   destroyed,   but   hope   reclaimed 

anew; 
'Tis  not  "Judea  Capta" ;  for  our  land  we  here  redeem; 
'Tis  not  the  twilight  of  our  life,  but  morning's  brilliant  gleam. 

We  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  God-appointed  day. 
When  Israel  shall  live  again,  and  none  shall  speak  him  nay! 
Beneath  an  Arch  began  our  mournful  trail  long  ages  past; 
Beneath  an  Arch  our  exile  ends;  and  dawn  returns  at  last! 


[29] 


THE  FRIAR,  THE  MAID.  AND  THE  JEW 

{From    the    "Hand^Mirror"     of    Johanw    Pfefferkorn,     the 

Apostate) 

In  Erfurt  from  a  manuscript 
I  plucked  this  strange  romance; 
The  Middle  Ages  gave  it  birth ; 
To  me  it  came  by  chance. 

'Tis  told  a  barefoot  friar  preached 
In  pulpit  and  in  square 
Against  the  Jews,  against  their  wiles; 
No  pity  would  he  spare. 

With  white-heat  plea,  fanatic  word 
He  roused  the  hungry  mob; 
Beneath  his  scourge  its  passion  swelled 
To  massacre  and  rob. 

In  vain  the  anxious  Jews  besought 
To  quench  his  diatribes; 
The  city  council  turned  deaf  ear; 
Nor  would  it  heed  their  bribes. 

Then  in  their  mournful  memory 
The  Erfurt  Jews  recalled 
How  fierce  Crusaders  slew  their  kin, 
In  bloody  mire  mauled. 


[30] 


A  greybeard  Rabbi  offered  aid; 
They  granted  his  appeal, 
A  thousand  ducats  placed  with  him 
To  turn  the  wax,  brute  steel. 

So  day  by  day,  the  Rabbi  gave 
The  begging  friars  food; 
He  heaped  gifts  high;  he  lavished  gold 
Upon  the  cloister's  brood. 

"This  do  I,"  was  the  Rabbi's  word, 
"To  expiate  my  sin; 
I  placed  my  wealth  for  usury; 
Now  shall  you  profit  win." 

"What  better  way  can  ill-got  gain 
Be  spent,  except  for  faith? 
That  I  be  washed  as  white  as  snow; 
For  thus  the  Scripture  saith!" 

It  came  to  pass  the  Rabbi  met 

The  mendicant  young  friar. 

Whose  heart  was  choked  with  savage  hate. 

Whose  piercing  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"Ah  would  that  he  might  follow  Christ!" 
The  barefoot  friar  craved; 
"Within  the  bosom  of  the  Church, 
Find  peace  and  thus  be  saved." 


[31] 


Soon  did  the  townsfolk  rub  their  eyes 

To  see  this  ill-mixed  pair. 

In  eager  converse  on  the  roads, 

In  market-place  and  square. 

Oft  in  the  cloister,  friar  and  Jew 
Perused  some  heavy  tome; 
The  youth  in  turn  did  not  disdain 
To  grace  the  Rabbi's  home. 


Now  know,  the  Rabbi  guarded  there 
His  orphan  foster-child, 
A  lovely  Jewish  maid,  with  eyes 
Gazelle-like,  sweet  and  mild. 

To  her  the  Rabbi  led  the  monk 
And  bade  him:     "Let  your  word 
With  eloquence  and  burning  zeal, 
Convert  her  to  your  Lord!" 

Ah  yes,  but  youthful  blood  runs  hot 

In  sinner  and  in  saint; 

Soon  worldly  thoughts  perturbed  the  monk, 

His  pious  speech  grew  faint. 

For  love  had  lodged  within  his  heart. 
The  love  of  man  for  maid; 
He  tossed  with  anguish  in  his  cell. 
Before  himself  afraid. 


[32] 


One  day,  the  Rabbi  drew  him  home, 
The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes: 
"A  mystery  I  must  unfold. 
Before  this  body  dies! 

"Long  years  ago,  a  secret  love 

I  gaily  wooed  and  won; 

She  bore  a  child,  my  flesh  and  bone; 

And  thou  art  he,  my  son!" 

"Nay  by  the  saints,"  the  friar  cried, 
"Thou  liest,  thrice-cursed  Jew!" 
But  parchment  scrolls  the  Rabbi  showed, 
And  proved  his  story  true. 

"My  heart  has  yearned  for  you,  my  son; 
I've  wept:      'Ah,  would  he  knew!' 
My  people's  woe  has  lent  me  strength, 
To  win  my  way  to  you." 

The  friar  fell  upon  his  knees. 

His  words  a  piteous  moan: 

"Ah  come  with  me,  my  loved  one  too. 

And  claim  the  Christ  your  own." 

"  'Twill  not  avail,"  the  Rabbi  said, 
"The   Bible  bids  you  heed 
As  son,  your  sire's  and  mother's  faith, 
And  follow  them  in  creed." 


[33] 


Now  shall  we  chide  the  barefoot  monk? 
For  gone  was  every  doubt; 
Love  triumphed  over  bigotry. 
And  hatred  fled  in  rout. 

The  lovely  Jewess  at  his  side, 

The  Rabbi  on  his  arm, 

He  left  those  scenes  of  grief  and  gloom. 

For  lands  where  fell  no  harm. 

He  doffed  his  gown  as  Capuchin, 
And  donned  the  robe  of  Jew; 
Found  happiness  amid  his  kin. 
And  to  his  faith  stood  true. 

Twas  whispered  that  repentance  soon 
Assailed  the  "renegade;" 
'Twas  said  the  Jews  then  tortured  him; 
His  death  their  vengeance  paid. 

But  we  know  better ;  many  a  source 
Reports  their  end  aright: 
They  lived,  the  youth,  the  maid,  the  Jew. 
In  endless  joy  and  light. 


[34] 


LEVIATHAN  AT  THE  CIRCUS 

It  happened  one  day  at  the  Circus, 
'Mid   the   fragrance  of  animal-land, 
We  stared  at  the  tiger  and  lion; 
We  marked  the  giraffe's  lanky  scion; 
We  heard  the  bad  gnus  that  the  "flu" 
And  gnumonia  had  stricken  the  gnu. 

Then  hied  we  our  way  to  the  trough 

Where  Sir  Hippo  lay  flat  on  his  side, 

A  mountain  of  pinkish  gray  meat, 

A  rare  royal  treat, 

'Neath  the  leathery  hide. 

Though  perhaps  just  a  trifle  bit  tough. 

A  Midrash  leaped  quick  to  my  mind. 

And   I   said   to  my   friend:      "Fate's  unkind; 

If  we  had  a  sharp  knife,  we  might  carve 

A  slice  from  Levyosan  below 

In  the  Olam  Ha-Zeh,  and  not  starve 

For  our  share  in  the  Olam  Ha-Boh.'" 

As  we  laughed   at  the  notion 

Of  Hippo-Levyosan, 

A  white-bearded  Jew,  very  fromm. 

Turned   round  with  a  wink. 

And  he  chuckled,  I  think. 

As  he  spoke  with  a  Nigens  quaint  hum: 

"My  friends,  if  I  make  not  too  free. 

Please  grant  at  your  banquet  my  plea: 

I  dote  on  your  Yiddish, 

So  when  you  make  Kiddish, 

Kmd  hosts,  won't  you  please  invite  me?" 

[35] 


THE  CITY 

I  am  a  bondsman  and  slave  of  the  City. 

Not  like  Elijah  in  his  goatskin,  a  man  of  the  desert. 

For  when  I  step  beyond  the  City's  charmed  sphere 

Ringed  like  Brunhilde's  castle  with  fire, 

I  am  starved;  I  yearn  with  a  fierce  hunger. 

The  City  is  a  magnet ;  I  am  a  sliver  of  steel ; 

It  drags  me  from  across  continents; 

In  the  solitudes  and  waste  places, 

I  writhe  helpless  under  its  spell; 

Amid  an  ocean  of  calm  I  am  a  burning  ship. 

Consumed  in  its  inmost  parts. 

I  am  Elisha,  a  creature  and  child  of  the  City. 

For  when  I  place  heel  upon  its  pavement. 

My  whole  being  cries:     Home!  Home! 

There  is  no  world  for  me  outside  the  City, 

For  the  whole  word  is  in  It: 

Its  men,  its  books,  its  movements,  its  events. 

I  am  a  midge  upon  the  flood. 

Yet  I  am  there; 

I  am  a  waterfly  upon  the  current. 

Yet  I  am  there. 

I  know  the  City  is  breaking  me. 

I  rush  to  and  fro, 

Sipping  its  joys. 

It  saddens  me;  brutalizes  me; 

I  become  a  cynic, 

A  misanthrope  through  sheer  wealth  of  men. 

I  grow  like  the  others, 

A  climber,  a  grasper,  a  clutcher. 

[36] 


Its  show  of  men  and  women  passes  by ; 
I  grope  at  them: 

My  fingers  hold  phantasms  and  vanities. 

I  hurl  my  tiny  hook  into  the  stream 

And  bring  up  the  stuff  of  which  sneers  are  made. 

Like  a  mirage  the  City  sways; 

When  I  leap  to  embrace  it, 

Like  Orpheus  Eurydice, 

It  eludes  my  clasp. 

It  shifts  and  vanishes; 

It  is  gone. 

The  City  is  a  juggernaut; 
It  rides  me  down ;  it  flattens  me. 
Yet  like  a  crazed  worshipper  of  Ind, 
I  cast  myself  in  its  path. 

It  does  not  kill  the  thing  it  loves, 
For  it  loves  me  not, 
Nor  cares  for  me,  nor  heeds  me, 
Nor  knows  even  I  am  there. 

It  saps  my  faith  and  energy ; 

The  fires  burn  lower  and  lower. 

In  the  end  it  will  throw  me. 

My  substance  in  ashes, 

A  twisted  cinder  upon  the  slag-heap. 

The  Thing  that  I  love  kills  me; 

Yea,  though  it  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  the  City. 

For  I  am  of  the  race  of  Asra, 

Who  must  die,  when  love  they  cherish. 


[37] 


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